


riyeht-o'noi

by Medie



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To them, she is <i>T'Sai</i> T'Pring, <i>Aduna</i> Spock</p>
            </blockquote>





	riyeht-o'noi

**Author's Note:**

> my research tells me that the title should mean "false belief" but my Vulcan is rusty at best as is cobbled together from multiple sources. Also, without any evidence to the contrary, I am going on the assumption that, in reboot'verse, Spock and T'Pring were still bonded. Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/where_no_woman/profile)[**where_no_woman**](http://community.livejournal.com/where_no_woman/) [DrabbleFest](http://community.livejournal.com/where_no_woman/54206.html#cutid1) prompt: 14) You see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions

In their eyes, she is defined by her shame. The shame he has wrought on her.

She walks the streets of Shi'kahr, head held high, and does not hear the whispers. She refuses to permit their entrance into her awareness. She is not a fool, nor is she an unlearned child, she knows that should she listen, should she give their words weight, she will see herself in the way that they see her.

To them, she is _T'Sai_ T'Pring, _Aduna_ Spock. Rendered (albeit clumsily) in Standard, the Lady T'Pring, Life Partner of Spock. That the formalization of their union has yet to occur matters little. They have been chosen for each other and, in the eyes of their people, that made it so. Thus making it all the more scandalous.

T'Pring knows what they say is true. Vulcan women do not gossip. They float quiet whispers of truth. (An old saying, meant in gentle humor, but also an old truth) She knows that he has found another. An outworlder. She does not need the whispers of old women to tell her this. There are moments when the faint link between them strengthens, moments when she senses that he is content.

It is true, but also irrelevant. She is not the shamed wife they see her as. The disgraced Lady, full of shame and rage, burned hollow by her intended's betrayal. That is what they see. That is all she is in their eyes.

In hers, she is so much more. She is _T'Sai_ T'Pring, daughter of Solen and T'Mai, daughter of the ancient and most noble house of Sevar. She and her kin have served and led Vulcan since the time of Surak and before. She carries the blood of the ancient warriors and peacemakers alike in her veins and defines herself by the expectations their accomplishments have set upon her.

She will not be defined by their words. She chooses that which defines her and she is all that history has made her and more besides.

She supposes, after a fashion, she owes Spock thanks. She has known logic. She has followed the edicts set down by Surak's teaching of _c'thia_ and allowed them to shape her into that which is considered perfectly Vulcan.

Spock's betrayal should not have touched her for a moment, and yet, in the beginning she sought refuge in the arms of another. In his way, she knows, Stonn loved her, but like Spock, knew nothing of _her_. If he had, he would have realized the shame she visited upon him with her use of his affections.

For a time, even before anyone knew, she permitted herself to be defined by another's actions.

With Stonn's departure from her bed, T'Pring ceases such immediately. She is prepared, then, for the beginning of whispers. She weathers their stubborn persistence without comment or rebuke. She leaves them their simple amusements and even simpler thoughts.

When the planet shudders and heaves, she is evacuated among the last. She takes a child from the arms of a father, promising safety as they are swept from Vulcan's surface to the Federation ship above.

They materialize on a cargo transporter, crude but effective, staring a panicked young technician in the face. From there, they are escorted into corridors and through the ship to their medical facilities. The whole process is quiet, efficient, without cry or complaint. They are, after all, Vulcans.

Uninjured, she sits to one side and holds the child closer, trying to shut out the emptiness in her mind where, moments before, the death screams of billions had raged. The silence, she believes, could drive her mad were she to permit it. Instead, she holds her charge, listens to the sounds around her, and drives the fear from her own heart. She quiets the chaos and allows the comforting embrace of control.

When the old ones begin to die, she knows they are not so successful as she. T'Pring takes the child, hefts her on one hip, and moves for the first.

Laying fingers against the psi points, she looks for others like her. The young. The healthy. While a bewildered Terran doctor stammers at her, she ignores him in favor of a cool command to her adopted kin. "You will help me."

They stare at her blankly. She considers them, recognizes some, knows it was they. She considers permitting herself a moment of satisfaction, but finds little point. The victory is a hollow one. They no longer have the luxury of their assumptions. She has not concerned herself with them for some time, therefore has no need to release anything.

"They are _dying_," she adds and turns from them. With the child in hand, she lets her mind slip into that of the elder before her, seeks out the katra that she can feel falling into darkness and seizes hold. She does not permit it to pass to herself. She will not take what is not offered. Refuses to even consider the offering made. Rather, she holds tight, willing the old one to survive. So much of their past wrapped up in fragile flesh and bone. None can be lost and she pours all that she is into the effort to prevent the loss of this one.

The strain of it sends her to her knees, nearly losing her grip on the child, but T'Pring holds fast. She will not fail. She will not be what they have thought of her. She has no time to fall back on such weakness, has no freedom to even consider it, so much is required of them now that none can falter.

When she can hold no longer, she breaks the meld, and finds the woman surveying her with eyes that are exhausted, weak, but _alive_.

T'Pring finds this satisfying. Closing her eyes, she leans against the framework of the biobed and seeks rest.

"She's stabilizing," the doctor says above her. "I'll be damned." A hand takes her by the elbow, the other laid flat against her back, and he is helping her to stand. "How the hell did you – Forget that, what just happened?"

It is instinct to rebuke him for taking such liberties, but exhaustion saps her anger. Instead, she looks at the woman, experiencing relief that she lives. "We heard the death cries of billions, Doctor, the shock is great. There are so few of us left, however, that the refuge of death is not one any of us may take." She lifts her chin, holding the child more carefully, stating for the others what she already knows. "We no longer have the luxury of our weaknesses."

Those that can hear do not meet her gaze. No matter, T'Pring is not concerned with their opinions.

She turns, stumbling, her knees made weak by exhaustion. Again, he catches her. This time, however, he helps her to a chair and settles the child in her lap. A moment later and he is scanning them both.

"Yes, Doctor," she says, quiet and, incongruously, amused, "we require sustenance and sleep."

The expression he gives her is comical. At least, by Terran standards she imagines it would be. "Ma'am, you mind letting me do the diagnosing?"

She waves a hand, permitting him to continue. He just harumphs and stands. "I'll have a yeoman bring you both a salad and some juice. We need to get your blood sugar up." Before she can speak, he shakes his head. "No, not processed sugar. What'd I just tell you?"

"You requested that I permit you diagnostic freedom," T'Pring replies. "You said nothing about comments on the nature of the Vulcan intolerance for Terran processed sugar."

"Well, I meant that too," he scowls. "Honestly, you think I'm gonna contribute to the delinquency of a minor in the middle of all this?" He gestures at the little girl in her arms. "She needs more of it than you do."

T'Pring's eyebrow creeps upward. "I would do nothing of the sort, I was aware as to your intentions, Doctor."

"Of course you are," he huffs. "Damn Vulcans. Every last one of you is -- " he pauses, looks at her and the child, and then does not quite smile, but nevertheless T'Pring feels an unexpected affection from him. "Everyone of you is pretty damn impressive."

T'Pring inclines her head. "I find your definition to be acceptable."

He chuckles. "So glad you approve."

"It does not matter," T'Pring advises. "In my existence, I have learned the opinions of those around you bear little resemblance to the truth at hand."

"Don't I know it," he sighs. He takes a few steps away. "I'll check on you later, ma'am."

"T'Pring," she replies. "I am T'Pring."


End file.
